Loom
by ficlit78
Summary: Grace ponders about her and Rigsby's apparent professional death wish as they continue to canoodle in the office. Post Rose-Colored Glasses
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So I swore that I wouldn't write anything until after next week's episode, but Grace and Rigsby's grab ass routine in the office needs to be addressed. Grace's POV. Props to Sesamina for hooking me up with some much needed eye drugs. If I owned the Mentalist, grannies everywhere would flatline at its filthy content.

**Loom**

He needs to stop. Oh God, he really, _really _needs to stop doing that. All of it. The soft presses of his fingers on my shoulder. The brushes of our hands. The knowing little looks across the bullpen. And the looming. Jesus, he really needs to stop with the looming.

I can't sit at my desk typing up research or be in the kitchen making tea, then suddenly feel a warm, intense wall looming at my back anymore. My fingers freeze. My lips grin without my permission. My shoulders automatically lean back into the warmth. I go limp. I go silly. I go instantly wet. He whispers to me. "Hey," and suddenly I feel his lips against my cheek. His aftershave invades my space. My precious, professional space. I can only see his mouth from this angle. His teeth flash in a boyish smile.

Suddenly I'm a woman. A small, wanted woman. The wall is responsible. Never in all my 5'9" years have I had a man who dwarfed me so completely. Who walked up and suddenly made me like a quivering little girl. He puts his hands on my hips from behind. Even in a momentary touch, he's lining me up against him. His body knows what it wants, even if this is hardly the time or place. But he allows it that one infraction: hold me in place. Remind me who I belong to. Burn me with a touch that—were it not for our present location—would lead what comes after alignment.

And I want it.

Oh God, do I want it. That's the problem. I can't be this woman at work. I can't turn to putty every time I feel that warm wall against my back. It shouldn't be there in the first place. Neither should kisses on my cheek that light a gasoline fire straight through my chest and lower body. Jesus, what has gotten into him? He's a rule guy. A cautious man. He likes order and obeys authority without question. The fact that he's with me proves how much he loves me. He would never risk the precious rules for mere attraction. Not _my_ baby.

So I get him breaking the rules for us. But now he's playing with fire and I can't help but let him. Honestly, _why am I letting him_? Yeah, I can claim to be the strong one and say that—aside from that kiss in the office—I haven't touched him openly at work. I can claim that, of the two of us, I'm at least _trying_ to keep it a secret.

But am I?

Why am I letting him touch me? Why do I my fingers freeze? Why do I smile? And for the love of God, _why_ do I lean back into that delicious, growling wall of serious trouble? Do I want to get caught? Do I want to get fired? Will I scream and wail and cry the day Lisbon walks in and catches us writhing all over each other next to the coffee maker? Will I rue the day that we ever decided to be so stupid?

Of course I will. I'll scream bloody murder at our stupidity and apparent professional death wish. I'll rail that we weren't careful. That we could have had both and now we've needlessly lost something dear. And he will agree. His big, sweet eyes will go round with panic and he'll instantly renounce his total lack of control up to that point. But it will be too late. Far too late.

One of us will get spanked.

One of us will get booted.

Neither of us wants either. We're good little kids. We want so much to be approved of. We're the A students. We thrive on our superior's good opinion.

But he won't stop touching me. And I won't stop letting him. His eyes will continue to pin me down. His hands will continue to brush accidentally on purpose. His lips will trip on my cheek. And the wall will continue to loom.

I fear so.

I hope so.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Okay, someone asked, so here it is. Rigsby's POV of the same situation.

* * *

I can't stop. Oh, dear God in heaven help me, but I just can't stop. I _cannot _stop touching Grace. Or looking at her. Or thinking the dirtiest, most unprofessional thoughts imaginable every time she walks into the room. Sweet Jesus, please save me from myself. I need divine intervention. I'm only one man and that he doesn't count for much against such temptation. I'm in desperate need of a higher power. I'm not picky. Any god will do.

Because _she's_ not helping.

She catches my eye and smiles shyly. She knows what I'm thinking. Her smile holds no admonishment. Even when she actually rebukes me, she's not. "Wor-kiiing," she purred at me when I massaged her shoulder lightly. Her word said no-no. Her tone, her eyes, her smile said yes-yes. _Why?_ Why is she teasing me so cruelly? Why haven't my errant hands been slapped away? Why haven't my kisses been chided? Why haven't my smiles been met with narrowed eyes and shakes of her beautiful head? Instead of being my sponsor and helping through my withdraw, she has become my pusher, feeding me hits of her body and affection.

She's killing me.

_Christ._

And to think! At the beginning of this, I was so relieved. _At last!_ I can pay attention to my work again. She's mine now and I don't have to agonize about how unattainably beautiful she is. How sweet. How she might meet someone else and finally drive me into the ninth level of Hell. I lived everyday with the enraged terror that she was with someone else, going home to some random jerkoff, letting him touch her as I felt only I was entitled, floating further and further out of my grasp until finally, she fell hopelessly in love and married a charity coordinator who fulfilled her need for kindness and do-gooding and—most of all—she was openly allowed to be with.

I, no matter what, couldn't give her that. And it slaughtered me. Instead of helping me deal with letting her go, it made me cling to her even more. _It's no use_, my brain would counsel. _Mine!_ my instincts would rage. They've been locked in battle for a year. I'm amazed I can even function on a basic level, never mind solve crimes.

So when she accepted me, I nearly collapsed in relief. I'd been through a long, torturous war. I was tired. Exhausted, actually. But I'd won. Grace was mine. Now I could go back to my normal life with the glorious addition of a woman I loved in my arms. Work should now be a breeze.

I'm a naïve man.

Since my instincts won the war, they run me like a king. I have no control. My brain is shouted down at every turn when it advocates caution. If we'd listened to him, I wouldn't have Grace. Hence, his two cents are worthless. My instincts, smug in their victory, whisper suicidal commands in my ear.

_Touch her. Kiss her. Run your hands over her back. Her shoulders. Slide your fingers through her hair. Smile at her. Whisper to her. Wink at her. Tell her with your eyes that instead of doing paperwork you want to be fucking her on your desk. _

I've already lost the small, pathetic battle against these orders. I follow them to the letter. The other commands? I barely have a lid on. But I've managed to disobey them so far.

_Fuck her! Tear those teasing, soft layers of clothes off and take her! She's yours! Lick every inch of her! Roar her name and bend her over a table in front of everyone! Make sure they know who she belongs to! Make her tell them! Make her sob your name like she does so sweetly behind closed doors! Fuck her fuck her fuck her fuck her fuck her fuck her!_

I must say, given the frightening pull my instincts have on me, I'm quite proud of myself. None of those terrifying scenarios have played out.

Yet.

So I pray. Dear God, any god, send me relief. Let me be content. Let me be still. Let me look at her without lust boiling over in my veins. Let me be with her and think about the job. Let me see her standing alone and let her be.

Please.

_Please._


End file.
